


Bizarre Tales

by grayglube



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Blood Kink, F/M, Mental Link, Mind fucking, season finale fix-it sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:37:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8735131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube
Summary: She only ever sees how blue it is.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [artemidos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemidos/gifts), [hasitsclaws](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hasitsclaws/gifts).



> This ended up being one of my favorite things I've written. Gift for artemidos because they are writing loads of cool stuff and to hasitsclaws because they need more surprise kichie smut

He knows she doesn’t want to do much of anything in the first few weeks following whatever they might collectively decide to call the evasion of the end of the world and its collapse into a Hell dimension.

 

But, his brother wants to rob a bank.

 

So, they rob a bank.

 

She sits pretty in her white dress in the backseat and says her lines at the top of the stage and he can feel something crawl over his bones.

 

_“You, be cool.”_

She serves as much function as a potted plant.

 

Not that she isn’t good at her part in things, she is. But, she doesn’t have a part she wants or a part that can’t be split between him and his brother, a part that’s wholly unnecessary in the old life neither of them subscribe to anymore.

 

Him and Seth.

 

They don’t _need_ to do anything.

 

But, what’s needless to him is vital for his brother. Even now.

 

Seth needs the expected and the well-practiced and the _“went off without a fucking hitch,”_ in order to recalibrate himself to the here and now.

 

Kate sits pretty and silent and hates them both, Richie can feel it.

 

He feels something like regret aching behind his ribs, he’d been greedy for the nostalgia of a perfect heist. Getting what he’s always wanted has more of an edge to it than he’s imagined it would.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a Sunday and the day is some bleary mess of nothing to do and the start of cabin fever. She comes back from Mass at some nameless church and he’s still awake, ready to turn in for the rest of the afternoon and not wake up again until midnight.

 

He’s been up working out possible scores he barely wants to bother with.

 

Seth is swapping the plates on the cars in the garage for want of something to do.

 

Her feet stick on the cold linoleum and her heartbeat jumps, surprised to find him still awake and standing in the dark of the hall, out of reach of the rectangle of midday sun on the kitchen floor.

 

They talk about the meaningless details of their days. His question, _“how was church”_ , makes her heartbeat bump up into a pretty thudding cadence of excitement.

 

 _Church_ , always comes out like he’s shushing her quiet, like he’s biting down to silence a hiss from himself. It sounds like a dirty word.

 

She stands in the bright block of light like it’s the safe spot in a childhood game where the floor is full of snakes.

 

She asks where Seth is and swallows something that must be nerves.

 

And then they collide together on the couch.

 

It isn’t her twitching limbs and the way her chest pulls away from his hand on her breast that gets his erection to flag, but her breathless question as she reaches to hold his wrists and keep his hands pressed above his head on the armrest, he fits his fingers between hers and lets her ask him; “We haven’t done this before, right?”

 

She’s in a cotton dress and simple underwear, powder blue, against the black of his slacks. His balls throb and the space between her legs is slicked up enough he can catch her scent when he opens his mouth.

 

Her chest heaves.

 

He doesn’t really need to breath anyway. “Amaru didn’t fuck me.” He says.

 

Her brow pinches tight and her shoulders cinch together like someone’s pulled on her laces.

 

Her hands reach up to hold her face and she makes a sound into her palms, plaintive, painful.

 

“What’s today?”

 

“Sunday.”

 

“The date.”

 

He lies: “I don’t know.”

 

She reaches across the space of the couch and him towards the wall outlet and side table where the truth might lie.

 

Her small breasts press too briefly against his head.

 

His cell phone tells her the month and year that she can’t comprehend, it’s above her expectations. His burner phone bounces off his stomach and she’s off of him, quicker and faster than she should be.

 

She’s different now, even if she can hide it around his brother. She pulls her sweater from the floor to cover her sudden chill and frowns from her perch on edge of the coffee table.

 

“It’s been a year and a half. More, really. You were walking around before that.”

 

“No.” She asserts, hisses, an accusation, a warning not to speak and a plea to help her understand what’s happened to her.

 

Lost time.

 

In all of his isolation he’s never not known where he’s been, who he’s seen, he can’t fathom a timeless span of events without his chest getting tight around his stuck-still organs.

 

It’s always going to be hard for her.

 

It hasn’t really gotten any easier for him either, though.

 

* * *

 

 

He gets shot and he bleeds across the backseat like Mister Orange minus the writhing and whining, she unbuckles herself and Seth keeps driving. She climbs into the backseat with her ankles catching on the center console, toes dragging across the emergency brake. Her heels are kicked off and in the rearview that his brother is too busy switching lanes to glance at her floral underwear flash into sight for the briefest moment of space and time.

 

“I can get it out,” she tells him kneeling against the floormats and she does, like she can see where it is inside of his kidney.

 

She offers him the space inside of her elbow to suck from. “You didn’t feed last night.”

 

He didn’t, she knows, it makes him suspicious, it makes him wary of all the times he’s watched her from a half-lit hallway, peeping in at her sleeping on her side, memorizing the curve of her spine, naked, or near enough. He can tell she doesn’t sleep, he knows at that moment with her offering him a sampling of what gods have fought to acquire.

 

Holy blood.

 

Virgins don’t taste like wine or light.

 

They taste like aching, they taste like disappointment, they taste like pride. Bitter and rich.

 

He strokes the back of her thigh down towards the hollow of her naked knee as she travels back towards the passenger seat. He heals quickly and watches her left arm, the pale skin of her neck, the sweep of her hair, the folds of her dress move as the car keeps up its jerky rhythm.

 

“You alright back there?” Seth asks, sunglasses on and concern minimal.

 

“Just peachy.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I killed people, I know that. And, I remember being touched. I would wake up and be doing something. She never needed to sleep but it always made me more tired when she took over. I set something on fire inside this thrift store to get attention, I hoped maybe someone would find out who I was and help me. Instead they just put me in that place. Jane Doe. And then, everyone died. She did all those things and I remember it and I hate having it inside of me.”

 

“You can tell me, if it helps.”

 

Her expression is dark. He isn’t expecting what she says next.

 

“It wasn’t ever men. Just girls. Pretty. I couldn’t talk to them but I could understand it when they spoke. They’d touch me but mostly I’d touch them. And it shouldn’t make it better, but it does. I fucked them, sort of, but at least no one fucked me.”

 

He gets her a glass of water because he doesn’t know what to say that will make her feel any better, a part of him knows that there isn’t anything that can make her feel better.

 

She pushes the glass he sets on the counter in front of her between her open palms and drags a finger through the glass’s cold sweat. “They’d like me touching them. And I barely understood why.” She says.

 

He swallows. He’s hard, he doesn’t mean to be, his mind follows the tangential emotions of her terror and disassociation but he’s still a man stuck on the image of her hand holding a pair of breasts, of fucking into someone with her hands or her pink hungry tongue, his mind cuts and pastes the imaginings onto her own body, him and her together, and embellishes it with fantasy sounds and scents.

 

He wonders what she would look like spread out against her plain rumpled bed with it’s simple linens or his dark, neatly made king sized monstrosity.

 

“Is that what is feels like when you fuck someone?”

 

“What?”

 

He understands her question and wishes he did not.

 

She’s in his head.

 

He wishes she did not continue and ask again, he wishes she would look away and blush, ashamed and willing to settle for her own opinion. She’s not a little girl. She was never a little girl.

 

“How does it make you feel?”

 

“When you’re young, like you, it doesn’t count.” He doesn’t want to talk about Santanico, about _Kisa_ , but he does, the words spill out of him, “It’s like affirmation. But, she was faking it. She was always rolling solo, up here.” He points at his head. He could make her Kisa come and shake and preen but it wasn’t love or even real need, it was only ever necessity, sometimes it still chafes at him.

 

“Amaru had a consort once.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“It was something she kept buried under everything else, the very first hurt.”

 

“What happened? He played her, and took over? And then she had to kill him?”

 

“He loved his brothers and sisters so much he went to find a place big enough for them to rule without needing to compromise between themselves. And he did all those things, conned her and stole from her. When she found him again she didn’t kill him, she made him a river of blood and his brothers and sisters into darkness and scorpions and jaguars and blades and slaves.”

 

“Brutal.”

 

“I think things like them are used to stuff like that. You know? Gods or demons, whatever.”

 

“Yeah, maybe.”

 

“You’ve been weird lately.”

 

He can only tilt his head in a modicum of benign confusion, he knows exactly what she means but must ignore it for the sake of keeping things on an even keel.

 

“Really?”

 

“You’ve been searching for blood typing kits on the internet.”

 

She’s AB positive.

 

She reads his mind as easily as she might have when she was not herself.

 

“I have my donor card in my jewelry box back in Bethel if you think somehow it might have changed. I can give you the address.” He already knows it.

 

In another life he’d have sent someone there just to call her bluff.

 

But, everything has changed now.

 

* * *

 

 

She’s hunched over in a chair by the window in the old restaurant taking gentle tokes on a pilfered joint. He watches, curious. Her shoulders are curled over like they hurt, her neck tight.

 

 _All you do is stand around_.

 

He hears her think it, the impression of the words curls inside of him and he startles out of he’s lean against the doorframe. She doesn’t move, she does nothing to make him sure she knows he’s heard her inner monologue.

 

There’s loneliness inside of her, gaping and black like the open maw of a monster about to swallow her. She hugs her knees and sputters on her next puff.

 

He’s silent in his steps closer to her and he puts his hand over the back of her neck, she startles but settles into bleary acceptance and deepening inebriation.

 

He rubs a thumb over the knot of her spine, tight and unyielding under his palm until she exhales smoke and he rubs harder circles into her skin and in-between the rungs of her spine. Her mother used to do the same thing whenever she came up behind her. It’s something left over from their mingling of blood.

 

There’s something decidedly unchildlike about the way she shudders and looks up at him, high as a kite, pupils blown wide, half dressed in the dark.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She wears her awful cotton pajama set of long sleeves and full pants with sunflowers into the garage.

 

Seth is away and they are alone.

 

“Manual labor?”

 

He’s wiping smudges off of their newest automobile acquisition, a classic, black and shiny and fast.

 

“You look like a PTA mom.” He tells her.

 

“Today’s Easter, you know?”

 

He’s surprised but hides it. “So? Are we painting eggs?”

 

She only shrugs.

 

“What?”

 

“I want to go to church.”

 

“So, go.”

 

“Can I have the keys to something?”

 

His heart gets tender for her as easily as an exhale. She stands so earnest and nervous that he almost thinks it’s real, he tosses her the keys and she catches them with half a glance, face expressionless.

 

She says thank you, he only nods.

 

She comes back wafting the perfume of someone else’s blood and fear. She leaves the keys on his nightstand while he sleeps through the afternoon. There’s something she’s discovered about herself that she’ll tell him about when he holds her by the throat and demands she tell him two days later.

 

“What did you do, Kate?”

 

Her hand moves slowly for his face and he wrenches himself away. Her laugh is startling, “Relax. I had to do it, I didn’t have a choice.”

 

“Who’d you kill?”

 

She extends her purse and he pours its contents out on the ground between them. There’s a Ranger’s ID.

 

“He was going church to church, Easter Sunday and a preacher’s daughter, bees and honey, right? They know we’re here, they had an old burner number.”

 

“We need to scatter.”

 

She nods. “I’ll be okay, don’t worry.”

 

He catches her wrist as she turns to start towards packing her meager possessions.

 

“Seth can bunk down somewhere close to here, you _and_ me will go South until things cool down.”

 

“Like old times.”

 

The old times never included her knowing more than he did and he feels more like a hostage than he’s taken notice of.

 

He loathes the thought of being looked for, he’s been having a good time and the intrusion of strangers into his new world leaves him feeling raw. He can’t help but wonder if she feels the same.

 

He knows a part of her must since she’s the one with blood under her nails.

 

* * *

 

 

They’re driving. It seems like it’s all they’ve been doing.

 

“He said they found the amulet in the mines.”

 

His face is statue pale and still in profile, his jaw clenches when he finally inhales, it makes a rough sound in his throat.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Kate only hums, his denial is weak. “I’m not afraid you know.”

 

“There’s nothing…”

 

“Don’t lie. I know, okay? There are prophecies and sacred cycles, don’t feel bad. Can’t we just do the things we want to do?”

 

“And what happens when things go to shit?”

 

“Pessimist.”

 

He takes the next exit and grumbles, “Show me the silver lining.”

 

Silence spills between them until the exit takes them down a service road with only a scanty handful of working streetlights.

 

“Silver lining, okay.” She huffs. She pulls her bottom lips between her teeth, worrying it until she says, “Pull over.”

 

His head jerks and his stare lingers for so long she’d worry about the road in front of them if there were anyone else around.

 

There’s no one.

 

“Why?”

 

Her exhale is heavy and shaky, a solitary throb thumps once between her thighs, she’s thinking of all the things they could do alone at night in the dark off of the highway.

 

He feels it like a physical touch under his suit and all over his skin.

 

The wheels slow and when he’s finally pulled to the side the hum of the engine has made her sleepy. She looks at him from under her brow and he undoes his seatbelt to lean close and hold her jaw in between his hands, his thumbs tilt up her chin.

 

“If we stop then we won’t make it before sunrise and I’ll have to get into the trunk and you’ll have to drive. So, just let me drive, Kate.”

 

She sighs and then she nods. Defeated.

 

His tone is too paternal not to chafe, her mouth falls open and her body gets warm, she wants to say something filthy, something that will make him put his big hands on less safe places.

 

She doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

They talk.

 

He talks, really.

 

He talks about brain chemicals and the mechanism behind arousal and orgasm and satisfaction, three for three, each playing a different tune and she doesn’t even look at him.

 

She listens, as much as she can stand.

 

When she finally does look up at him she asks if he can do something for her.

 

_“You can make people do what you want, right?”_

 

She saw him use his wayob in the bank during the last heist.

 

_“Could you tell me to tell you what I want?”_

 

Her tone is meant for seduction, the bargain she knows he’ll agree to even if her answer makes him quiver in something akin to biblical shame.

 

Her answer is not what either of them expect.

 

He shivers and leaves the room anyway.

 

“What do you want?”

 

In a language spoken where there is a river of blood she tells him:

****

**_“I want to know why.”_ **

****

He wakes up from something that she’s dreaming too.

 

* * *

 

 

Seth settles in looking worse for wear, the drive was long for him with three car swaps and no pharmaceuticals to help with the edge that’s cutting into all his nerves.

 

Richie hears her say to his brother, “Missed you.” She puts her head against his arm when she sits down next to him on the couch he’s half asleep on.

 

Richie smiles at them when he catches her looking but keeps silent and still, lonely in his own way.

 

Seth wants to plan a job.

 

They plan another job.

 

* * *

 

 

“When’s your birthday?” Seth asks.

 

She wants to tell him it doesn’t matter.

 

And Richie knows it doesn’t, not anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

She trips and skins her knee like she always managed to do when she was small and wearing white stockings for a holiday dinner or church service. It’s another thing he’s learned from having sampled what he has of her soul.

 

The edges of her Band-Aids catch on her skirt hem and tug them halfway free. She’s alone in the small kitchen of where they’ve settled into, there is party store birthday detritus everywhere.

 

He comes out from his room, awake and freshly showered, dressed down. He pads barefoot to where she’s sitting on the counter staring at the living room’s disarray. He pulls the Band-Aids off her unblemished knee. “When are you going to tell him that you’re not getting any older?”

 

Her birthday balloons crowd around the ceiling and she’s eating a yellow frosting rose off of a plastic spoon, the contemplation of the state of being she now exists in makes her moody.

 

“Do we have to?”

 

He jingles her bracelets and looks at where she isn’t looking at him, spoon stuck in her mouth and staring at the wall over his shoulder, petulant and sad.

 

“He’s going to notice you don’t have any scars one day.”

 

“He never notices anything important.”

 

* * *

 

 

Seth asks him while they wash and dry dishes in some domestic scene out of everyday life. “Do you think she’s doing okay?”

 

He shrugs and smirks down into the hills prismatic foam around his wrists as he fishes for cutlery. “Seems fine to me.”

 

“You don’t think she’s been, moody?”

 

“She’s a teenager still, right? They’re supposed to be moody.”

 

“Maybe it’s just her period.”

 

He can’t help the way his head pulls up or the way he answers, “That was last week.”

 

Seth looks back in some half-concealed expression of benign disgust.

 

“That’s fucking creepy.”

 

* * *

 

 

Her brother shows up sans phone-call, the only explanation he gives is that he’s on a break from touring and it’s hard for Seth or himself to suppress some condescending expression in Scott’s direction.

 

The other set of siblings spend time together watches Dragon Ball Z reruns on a late-night anime block of programming.

 

When she finally heads off to her room it’s two in the morning. Seth cleans his guns and nods her off with a smile.

 

Alone with the adoptive Fuller, Richie only blinks when the kid says, “I want to help with your next job.”

 

Seth is baffled in the quiet way he always has been with things that surprise him.

 

Richie only smiles while his brother jumps to a loud _“no”_ of disagreement.

 

“He can drive the car,” He suggests.

 

Scott grins and Seth gives in.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s some kind of honesty in her jumping hips and the turn of one leg towards the side of the bed. Her tiny foot is curled tight, he strokes at her sole and she clutches at the fingers he’s pumping in and out of her at a pace far lazier than her uneven breathing. Her toes spread wide against the fabric of his sweatpants.

 

He leans sideways and covers her bare knee with his mouth, licking and sucking where she’d torn it open, where it had healed over, smooth and unblemished.

 

She’s akimbo legs and bent arms, he stays up on his knees, hunched and wanting, she knows his mouth is open, she can hear the harshness of his breaths, he can taste her like a snake and see her heat even with the lights out.

 

She puffs half-held breaths and sucks hard on the inside of her arm, she worries her own skin with teeth and the humidity of her whining.

 

He doesn’t remember the reason, the lie, she used to crawl into his bed, curl up behind him and put her palm under a shirt she’s since helped him remove. He doesn’t know how her blunt human teeth felt so sharp carving over the hard curvature of his shoulder blade in the dark. He doesn’t understand why what got him so hard so fast was her gnashing at his skin through his t-shirt, the dampness of her tongue seeping through the cotton.

 

Her knees pressed up behind his and the rub of her nipples made his spine itch with a shiver he’d managed to suppress until he’d let his fangs drop and pulled her under him.

 

She comes and he wants to taste it in her blood. His silence above her only makes him another patch of darkness. She whispers his name, eye shut tight, trying to drink down a mouthful of air. She’s so wet around his fingers it seems unbelievable that he’s the reason for it.

 

He doesn’t take what she offers of her body in the dark with her head titled and her voice breathless, “You didn’t feed tonight.”

 

“I’m not going to do that.” His refusal is too firmly spoken for something said in the dark.

 

“What are you going to do now then?”

 

She doesn’t say, _to me_ , but he hears it anyway as he leaves her empty and pets her sex gently, easing her pulse back down from racing.

 

He scoffs, an unsaid question of his own wraps around her own baser thinking, _haven’t_ _I done enough_? He’s smirking at her in the dark and she’s reaching for where his cock is peaking from the pulled low waist of his sweatpants. Her thumb glances over him just once before he’s caught her wrist, but there’s hesitation in what he means to do with it, his fingers are still slick from her.

 

He lets her hand fall and her knuckles gauge the shape of him slowly before he's pulling up her hand and holding it against his chest.

 

“You don’t even know what you’re doing.”

 

She bristles. Her voice quiet in the dark he can see through when she says, “I still want you to come, too.”

 

He goes still, preternatural and predatory.

 

The gruffness in his voice might be bravado when he finally says, “fine.” He pushes his sweatpants low, she can smell him in the dark, her own arousal still stuck between them, a scent on their skin that makes her cant up closer to where his hand works on himself.

 

He shuffles back on his knees and makes a sound like an animal hum to keep her docile. He suspects she only rolls her eyes at the ceiling before she’s up on her elbows, reaching for the back of his thighs with her feet. She pulls herself down the sheets and sits up.

 

She keeps her hands away from his and strokes the dark blonde of where hair trails down from his navel with her thumb, he groans and batters himself harder.

 

“Go slower,” she tells him, lifting up on her knees to kiss where his throat is stretched back and trips fingers down the naked rungs of his spine. He rests his chin on her crown and he steadies his pace to something softer and slower, his knuckles brush against her, mound to navel with every stroke. The sharpness of her hips presses against his when she puts her hand down the front of his pants below where his own works.

 

“Careful,” he warns even as he letting her hold him by the balls. She cradles his sac and holds it up against the base of his cock, he rocks forward on a sigh and she holds the bottom of his spine in her other palm.

 

He spurts like a cut artery between both their fronts, his groan is like defeat and her inhale is like a happy surprise that pulls him forward by the dick to slip against her messily.

 

He lies next to her after, tries to sleep but watches the ceiling while she sprawls and takes both pillows, turned away from him and hugging one to her naked front. She’s wiped the mess from them both with the discarded sheet and sucked his semen off the back of her hand. “You taste like salty pennies.”

 

“It’s all diet.” He deadpans, trying to evade her grasp again, she only pulls him back down to the mattress and tells him he can sneak out after she falls asleep, if he wants to.

 

She’s falls asleep and all he wants is to reach across the bed and rob warmth from her skin like she’s a rock he can lay out on in the sun.

 

She looks like every wet dream he had when he was her age.

 

In the dark she twists herself around his pillows and sighs in her sleep.

 

He thinks about what they’ve done in the dark.

 

She had been spread out, legs bent and one foot pressed flat to leverage her hips closer, the other arched to help tilt them and get his fingers deeper inside of her. A hand reaching up to twist the corner of his pillow and the other down to help him make her come, breaking the rhythm of his fingers and rutting against his wrist until everything had stopped tensing and shook a little in the bleary pleasure of her own orgasm.

 

It had been like watching her emptied out of everything making her so fucking sad.

 

In his bed.

 

He gets up knowing he won’t be able to sleep and showers, he’s hungry. He dresses in the dark and catches her eyes as he opens the door to go out.

 

“I need to feed.”

 

She blinks and turns over to ignore him, he almost crawls back into bed to sooth her surliness with his tongue in the place his fingers are more familiar with, the sheet slipping low and the teasing peek of her ass is almost enough to break his will.

 

“We can talk later. If you want.” He says it to assuage her, she makes no reply.

 

Her clothes are left in the same places they sent them towards during the early hours of dawn, when he returns from feeding just as night takes definitive hold and edges out dusk. He holds up a scrap of fabric and inhales once before tossing her panties towards his hamper, he holds her t-shirt for long minutes and puts it inside a pillow that smells like her too.

 

When he finds her she’s discussing something with his brother between spoonsful of cereal.

 

“Thanks for joining us,” Seth snarks.

 

Kate muffles a small rueful chuckle.

 

“I had dinner plans.”

 

Scott walks in asking a question no one quite catches for the brevity of it as he stops halfway towards the table, mouth dropped open and eyes wide, he’s looking at his sister unable to comprehend.

 

She smells like she’s been deflowered over long hours of fucking. _Halfway there_ , he thinks. She snorts.

 

Seth doesn’t notice.

 

“Are you shitting me right now?”

 

“I _am_ eating the last of you cereal.” She replies knowing how inane her answer is. Richie stares between the two other siblings.

 

“That’s not-…” but, and again, her brother stops talking, cut off at his sister’s half-pulled grin and raised eyebrows.

“Okay, enough children. We’ve got an itinerary to go over here.”

 

Scott scowls. “Yeah, whatever.”

 

Kate’s smile is something from the dark. “Well, we’re done. I’m gonna go get ready.” She pads away on bare feet and Scott glares at him from across the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

 

Her brother doesn’t stay for their next job.

 

Richie catches the end of a half-hissed argument in the hall.

 

“You can’t, Kate.”

 

“Can’t what?”

 

“You can’t just fuck around with someone, okay?”

 

She only walks away, silent. She finds him when she turns into the living room. She shrugs and her smile is some self-depreciating half-grin. Richie smiles back.

 

* * *

 

 

They return to Burt’s abandoned set-up. Flush with more money than they need. They settle in and get domestic. The weed shop is easy enough to handle, the motel is more nuanced but they figure it out eventually. The bar and grill is more trouble than it’s worth with only their trio of poor work ethic.

 

One day soon they’re going to need a bigger crew.

 

“Maybe you should call your little brother.” Seth says, grumbling over an uncapped beer as they all sit by the gas pumps in metal and vinyl beach chairs looking up at the ink black ocean of the sky pinpricked with white gas giant light and the shine of long dead nebulas.

 

His brother teaches her how to roll a perfect joint and tucks it behind her ear when he’s finished the demonstration.

 

* * *

 

 

Her naked palms press up onto his ribs. They’ve been here before, they’ve just never seen it through. The sweat and masculine lust that floods from him softens the chip on her shoulder.

 

She traces the bow of his top lip with her index finger and when she exhales harshly her bare chest sticks to the dampness of his own, her nipples are tight from excitement and his fangs drop like a knife being sharpened.

 

“Say it,” he says, begs.

 

She likes to say it as much as he usually pretends to hate hearing it.

 

“You didn’t get to go out and feed yet.”

 

And when he punctures her in the haze of only bleary self-awareness and half reality there’s a cresting sensation of comfort and settling in he barely notices, in the hard to explain nearly drunken way he might like to describe it all he settles upon is the idea that it feels like being held.

 

Kate, for as deeply carved as her pain is into her bones is human, a state he’s left behind, and she believes in God, he’s never held much faith in father figures.

 

He laves his red tongue over the pink of her nipples and sucks until she’s panting.

 

They don’t fuck but he guides her hips in the cradle of his hands back and forth along his thigh until she’s mouthing nonsense and arching up against him.

 

It’s as close to God as he’s likely to get.

 

* * *

 

 

Kisa rumbles in on a motorcycle and spends a few nights, just visiting and Kate spends long hours with her. He watches them smile and wonders if Kate misses having friends.

 

He contemplates the absurdity of having Kisa as a friend, Kate seems to enjoy the extra company but barely manages to drag herself from bed to wave goodbye when the woman he shared a bed with forever ago leaves.

 

His brother has marks on the meat of his thigh, right above the knee. Richie catches it when Seth walks from the bathroom one night with his towel wrapped around his hips.

 

He tells Kate about it while she plays with the strands of her long hair at the foot of the bed he’s just made in one of the checked-out of rooms.

 

“This place is so weird,” she answers.

 

“It feels like the outer limits here.”

 

“End of the highway.”

 

“ _The_ _Outer_ _Limits_.” He stresses the words.

 

She looks up in blank confusion.

 

“The show.”

 

She turns over onto her back. “There’s a show?”

 

“Like Twilight Zone, only better.” He drags the vacuum into the room.

 

“Is there an episode where someone’s brother has sex with their ex who prefers women?”

 

“Did they fuck?”

 

“Yes, but I think they were surprised they ended up liking it so much. I only heard the second half of what they were doing.”

 

“That’s called eavesdropping.”

 

“It woke me up.”

 

He starts the vacuum and she rolls back onto her stomach and watches him clean like a housecat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He follows the scent of green smoke.

 

He finds her in the dark of the bar and grill set up like a graveyard of chairs stacked on top of tables and dusty floorboards, her ankles crossed on the windowsill, her chair tipped back on two legs.

 

“Seth’s found something new to case.”

 

He pulls down a chair for himself and sets it in the middle of the floor, her eyebrows raise before she rises.

 

“It’s good to have a hobby.”

 

He nods towards her joint, “This one of yours, now?”

 

She holds it between her thumb middle finger, turning her hand and the smoke with it, she looks up from it. “I don’t think it does what it should.”

 

“I know what you mean.”

 

She hums and pads close, barefoot and nearly all leg in one of his or his brother’s old undershirts, the neck of it stretching low on her collarbones, they glare sharply at him like bird wings under her skin.

 

Her small hand offers him a touch of inebriation, he takes a drag and crushes the roach under his shoe heel once he dropped it on the floor spraying ash and lit orange flecks that die before they can touch her toes.

 

“Kate.”

 

Her face softens into some dreamy thing, “What is it?”

 

The chair creaks when he leans back more fully into it, “You’re not wearing any underwear, are you?”

 

Her smile dissolves and he waits, patient, more hopeful than he knows he should be.

 

“You don’t really get high unless you eat someone who’s high, right?”

 

He’s slow to answer but sighs finally, “Are you volunteering to be my dinner?”

 

“Close your eyes.”

 

He does and her weight settles in his lap, he can reach down and feel her feet arched on the high rungs, her ankles are smooth and her toes scrunch up under his touch, she slots herself more perfectly against his groin.

 

“Open your mouth.”

 

She takes his glasses gently from his face and leans to place them on the floor before she puts her pulse on his lips. He nuzzles at her heartbeat and her hips rock, the warmth of her sex moves through his shirt onto his skin, she presses against the leather of his belt.

 

She’s waiting for the puncture of fangs and not the blunt edge of his teeth ghosting over his nipple when her stolen shirt falls free of one shoulder, she holds his head in both hands and ruins the stick of his pomade, there’s tension in her grasp to keep from forcing him closer.

 

He puts his mouth over as much of her breast as he can, tongue sloppy and hand kneading at its twin.

 

“Bite the other one now.”

 

He’s dutiful in following her commands and for a while it’s all she wants to be in his lap with his hands moving slow, thumbs rubbing heat into her small perfect breasts, strumming over her nipples, his nose pressed against her neck to catch every spiking flare of lust in her blood.

 

Her arms press down between his to pull his shirt from his waistband and start on his belt, he needs to hold her by the hips to keep her in his lap when she scoots back to pull out his cock. The heel of her hand smears the leak of precum all around him.

 

He rests against her folds and she smothers a groan as she tilts up and down enough times to leave him slippery from it. His eyes are still closed when she stops and lets her chest press against his in quick pants, “What is it?”

 

“I want to see your eyes.”

 

He opens them and she shakes her head. “What they really look like.”

 

They flash yellow while she’s putting her hand around him and dropping a foot to the floor to get her hips high enough, her body clutches at him, wet and warm like blood or a soul and it hugs at his cock when the rest of his face unfolds into scales.

 

The sound of her body slipping open around his makes her flush, he can see it in the heat coming off of her skin.

 

He keeps hold of her and leans back, she holds his neck and jaw and stares at him while she’s sinking down all the way. The briefest wince makes her jaw tight for just a moment, aching with fullness, he’s deep and she squirms, panting.

 

“You’re my first.”

 

He knows.

 

“I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

 

“Good?”

 

She shakes her head and his heart skips like a stone.

 

“Special,” she says and his heart might be bleeding from how deeply she always manages to wound him. Her mouth slants over his and her tongue catches on a fang.

 

She puts the foreheads together and swears. He means to move them towards a table where he can lay her out underneath him but she finds her leverage and tests out a pace for getting him to stroke inside of her.

 

She puffs against his skin, humid and sweet, “You’re warmer than I thought you would be. Inside of me.”

 

“You’re a natural.”

 

Her movements are small but he’s a patient audience to what she wants to work out on her own, it’s takes a long time but she drops a foot to floor again and holds the back of the chair.

 

He likes that he can watch his finger run down the slope of her back as she pulls almost free of him and sinks back over him, her body opening around him, the slow retreat that makes his balls heavy and his mind blank.

 

She’s rocks hard, pushing forward and sucking on his throat, carving out a place for herself somewhere in his marrow when she finally comes.

 

He holds the back of her neck and her chest flattens against his, he tilts up, pressing his heels into the floor so hard the wood creaks. He spills inside of her with his neck stretched back, hissing in the dark after she’s kept up a rhythm his hands show her the way of.

 

When he slips out of her she’s halfway towards another peak and hunger gnaws at his guts, he puts her over his thigh to ride it while he fits fangs to her pulse and sucks.

 

Her blood is as heavy as cream and she tastes like something as vital as night.

 

* * *

 

 

One day his brother won’t be angry anymore.

 

One day hers will know he was never going to be able to stop what had come to pass.

 

One day Kisa will stop running away from an ancient world that’s already dead.

 

One day Freddie will stop searching.

 

He looks outside of the motel’s window and the sky in Xibalba is always red.

 

She only ever sees how blue it is.

 

One day she might finally have figured out that getting out of Hell wasn’t as easy as walking further into it.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know, right? Surprise? Maybe? Technically I guess this is a finale fix-it. They never really made it out of Hell, the end.


End file.
